by Sarah Fine
Jaspar moves with me, staying near. “So it’s mistrust that drives her away,” he says.
“What reason does she have to trust you? You’re ingratiating yourself with her warriors and bringing us all to a foreign land, ruled by a man who tried to assassinate our chieftain.”
“Is that what you were told?” he asks.
“You make it sound like Lars was spinning a tale, but he refused to speak of it at all.”
“Oh, I don’t think it was Lars who did the spinning.” Jaspar laughs.
“Thyra won’t talk about it either.” No matter how many times I asked.
“Yet somehow all of you have the same belief, that my father is some sort of traitor.”
“If he wasn’t, then why didn’t he openly challenge Lars?” My lip curls. I remember Nisse. Always in the council shelter, always drawing maps in the dirt, always full of plans and strategy, always thirsty for conquest—and rarely riding out to do his share of fighting.
“What makes you think he wanted to challenge Lars?” I give Jaspar a skeptical look, and he leans forward, his mouth tight. “Hundreds were loyal to my father, Ansa. Have you considered that he wanted to protect them from the consequences of that loyalty if he perished, even if it was based on an unfounded and unjust accusation?” He moves close enough that I can feel the skim of his breath across my cheek. “What would Thyra do?” He chuckles. “I’ll bet she never imagined she’d have to face such a choice.”
I wince and get to my feet. “Don’t compare them,” I say, my voice turning rough as my thoughts tumble with everything I’ve heard about what happened during the winter. A vial of poison was discovered in Nisse’s shelter, along with the celebration goblet Lars always drank from when he returned in victory. It was found by a slave . . . or a child? Whoever it was took the evidence straight to Lars and his senior warriors, if the rumors are true. I cast a wary look at Jaspar, who is watching me with one eyebrow arched. I’d rather stab myself in the throat than ask him what he knows.
“Any chieftain would be privileged to have such a loyal wolf as you at her side,” Jaspar says. “Or his side.” My eyes narrow, and he smiles. “I simply meant that you were just as loyal to Lars.”
I swallow the lump in my throat at the sudden, unbidden memory of Lars roaring with laughter after I spit Sander’s earlobe at his feet. I had never in my entire life felt as mighty or fierce as when Lars looked at me with respect. “Of course I was. And you should have been too. He was your uncle.”
“I would have been loyal to the end, if I hadn’t been forced to choose.”
“That’s what loyalty is, you dunce. A choice.” The flames flare, and I turn away quickly, my heart pounding with terror as I see them start to reach for Jaspar.
He jumps in front of me. “Don’t walk away. Ansa, you can’t fault me for following my conscience. I believe my father when he says he never intended to assassinate his brother. I would stake my life on it.”
I blow a long, cool breath from between my lips, trying to slow my heart. “That is comforting,” I whisper. And confusing. “But you can’t fault me for not trusting you.”
“I trust you.”
When I open my eyes, he’s only a foot away. “You shouldn’t.”
His smile is sad. “I can’t help it. I always have. You’re not a schemer. You wear your emotions like a cloak. You laugh when you’re happy and attack when you’re angry. I always know where I stand.”
“Don’t pretend like you know me. A lot has happened since you left.”
“Clearly.” He glances over at Thyra, who is trudging toward us slowly, carrying a full waterskin and pretending she’s not watching our every move. “Has she earned the loyalty you give her?”
I draw a dagger. “Are you suggesting she’s not worthy?”
“I’m suggesting you are.” He takes my wrist and guides my blade to the side of his neck. “Your loyalty should be rewarded with trust, Ansa. Pure, unwavering trust in return for your pure, unwavering devotion.”
“Thyra does trust me.”
“Does she?”
I do my best to hide the twinge of uncertainty that pricks in my mind. Jaspar’s hand slides up to mine, and he squeezes my fingers as I watch my blade dent his skin. If I pressed, he would bleed. “Such devotion,” he whispers. “I can see it in your eyes. A chieftain dreams of such a wolf, and here you are.” He releases my hand, and I carefully pull the dagger away from his flesh, painfully conscious of my own unsteadiness.
“Ansa,” Thyra calls out lightly as she returns to our side. “As much as I would sympathize, try not to kill my cousin before we reach our destination.”
Jaspar bows his head, hiding a grin. “Ah, but who could blame her,” he says good-naturedly, looking around at the other warriors who have gathered to share the warmth of the fire. “My own father threatens to murder me on a daily basis.”
“Aye, but you earn that with your mischief!” says one of his warriors with a laugh. The woman has her long hair pulled back tightly and coiled at the back of her head. Her right middle finger bears numerous kill marks, which means she’s already started on her left arm.
Jaspar dodges as she tosses a burning wood chip at him. “Yes, Carina, but—”
“There you are!” comes a broken voice, harsh with rage. We all turn to see Gry stalking up the trail toward our fire. Her finger is raised, a spear of accusation.
She’s jabbing it at my chest, and I feel each thrust.
“Gry, what’s wrong?” asks Thyra, rushing forward.
“I demand compensation,” Gry shrieks. Her face is red, and her blond hair has pulled loose from its braid and hangs in pathetic strings around her face.
Thyra takes her by the shoulders and gives her a gentle shake. “What are you talking about?”
Gry leans around Thyra, and her eyes bore into mine. “I know what you did.”
My hard biscuit has turned to stone in my stomach. “Then maybe you could share, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Thyra looks troubled as she releases Gry, and stays next to her as she approaches me and Jaspar. “I was depending on Hulda to help me now that I’ve lost Cyrill,” Gry says in a choked voice.
“Gry,” Thyra says. “Tell us what’s happened.”
Gry turns to her. “Hulda didn’t return from gathering kindling. I went to look for her.” She glowers at me. “And I found her in the woods.”
“Dead, I assume?” Jaspar asks. The other warriors around the fire are staring at us with rapt attention.
I wish I could melt into the ground like frost under the sun, but instead I’m frozen where I stand. I push the memory of Hulda’s eyes out of my head as Gry nods.
“And you think I had something to do with it?” I ask, hating the shake in my voice.
“You asked where she was this morning!”
I force a laugh, sharp and high. “I merely wondered why she wasn’t in the shelter, helping you prepare for the journey!”
“My oldest saw you follow her into the woods,” Gry says, hatred soaking her voice.
Thyra gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head, terrified by the cold twist of ice inside me. I want to run, to get away from Thyra and everyone else I care about, but if I do, my innocence will be questioned. “I went to offer my assistance,” I say. “I told you I would help take care of your family.”
“And that included leaving my slave dead in the forest?”
“I never saw her!” I shout. I hate the way Thyra is looking at me, the questions in her eyes. Her doubt is a knife. “I went looking for her, but she was nowhere to be found.”
Lies and lies and lies. What I wouldn’t give to fly across the Torden and cut that witch queen’s throat.
“How was she killed?” Jaspar asks, yanking me from my bloody thoughts. He glances over my arms and calves, where my weapons are sheathed.
Gry’s mask of righteous rage slips. “I don’t know. I just know she was.”
A line forms b
etween Jaspar’s brows. “If Ansa killed her, wouldn’t there have been a wound?” He gestures at me. “When she kills you, you tend to know it.”
Sander lets out a begrudging grunt, but everyone else is silent. I look to the other side of the fire and see him staring back. He runs his hand over his scabbed throat and I look away.
Gry folds her arms over her chest. “No wound. She was cold when I found her.”
I grit my teeth, and Thyra frowns. “And when was that?” Thyra asks.
“Midmorn. Just as we were leaving.”
“So she had been dead for a while,” Jaspar says, moving to stand right next to me. A vote of confidence that sits like honey on my tongue.
One I do not deserve.
“She was only steps inside the tree line,” Gry snaps, her keen eyes on me. “How could you have gone into the woods and not have seen her?”
“How am I supposed to know?” I say, my stomach a pit of snakes. “Forgive me for the fact that I had a thousand other things to do this morning. When I didn’t see her, I turned around and left. I don’t have time to search for careless slaves in the woods.”
“Could she have died of natural causes, Gry?” Thyra asks with a much more appropriate tone to take with a widow. “Hulda was reaching the end of her middle years.”
“And was stout as an ox,” says Gry. She closes her eyes and lets out a breath. “The look on her face, Chieftain.” Her voice breaks, and her eyes fill with tears as she looks up at Thyra. “There was such terror there.”
“That kind of look doesn’t require an external source,” I say. I am earning every second I will spend in hell someday. “Her heart could have seized.”
Jaspar nods in agreement, but Thyra is still staring down at Gry, whose cheeks are sunken, whose nose is red. Gry, who used to wear a smile like the sunrise, whose laugh was a gift, and whose love for Cyrill was like a blazing torch. “So she died afraid,” Thyra says, stroking Gry’s hair. “Is there anything else to suggest she was killed, instead of a more natural, though deeply unfortunate, death?”
A tear slides down Gry’s face as her eyes meet mine. “Nothing I can prove,” she says, her voice trembling. “But when I say she was cold . . . there was melting frost on her skin. Her body was stiff with it.” She shudders. “It wasn’t natural, Chieftain.”
A hissing, anxious whisper comes from somewhere behind me, but I hear it like it’s been shouted in my ear: witchcraft.
“All right, I think we’ve let this go on long enough,” Jaspar says loudly, and Thyra steps back suddenly, a look of shock on her face. “Carelessly hurled accusations are sparks on dry tinder after everything this tribe has been through. Gry, we’ll compensate your household for the slave. And—”
Thyra gives him an imperious look. “Gry is of my tribe.”
Jaspar pauses, his mouth still half open, and then he smiles. “My mistake, Chieftain Thyra. By all means. Lead.” He gestures at Gry.
Thyra’s cheeks are red as she puts her arm around Gry and guides her away from the fire, away from dozens of warriors’ stares, back toward her camp up the trail. She murmurs quietly to the widow as they walk. Jaspar chuckles. “I suppose the same words are sweeter if delivered with a soft touch and a gentle voice.” His warriors lift their waterskins to him in salute, and he grins before reaching over to squeeze my shoulder. “Are you all right? It’s not every day one is accused of murdering a slave by”—his brow furrows—“freezing?”
I shiver, letting out a bitter laugh. “Yes. See? A lot has changed since you left. Now I don’t need these.” I hold up my arms, showing off the sheathed daggers strapped between my wrists and elbows. “All I need is to think cold thoughts.”
He guffaws. “Then I’ll redouble my efforts to inspire only warmth in you.” He glances at Thyra’s retreating figure before looking at me again. “Remember what I said, Ansa, hmm? Think about what you deserve in return for that iron loyalty of yours.” He leaves my side and joins his warriors.
I turn and stalk toward the woods on the far side of camp, my thoughts a mess of ice and fire and panic. I’ve just reached the trees when I hear footsteps behind me. Thyra stalks through the dark toward me. She wears the moonlight like a crown, and her eyes are like chips of quartz. “Did you do it?” she asks in a harsh whisper.
“What?” I take a step back.
“You said the witch cursed you to hurt our people. Did you? Are you her weapon now?” Her doubt slices into my side, seeking my vitals. I should admit what happened. I should tell her. But she’s looking at me like I am a stranger, and I recognize the suspicion in her eyes—it’s the way she looked at me when I was first brought to camp all those years ago, a filthy raid prize passed from one tribe to another. She was the daughter of the chieftain, and I was no better than one of the wild dogs who prowl around camp looking for scraps. I fought and I fought and I fought to become one of the Krigere, to have a place and a home. I thought she accepted me as one of them, fully and completely. Now her doubt cuts through that hard-won safety, slicing me away from my tribe, from my love.
“Thyra, I swear I didn’t do it!” The lie bursts from me before I can muzzle it.
“So Gry is a liar?”
“She wasn’t even there!”
Thyra rubs her face and lets her arms swing at her sides. “I’m sorry, Ansa. What she described . . .”
I know what she must have described. I left Hulda frozen, her last breath a shred of gray vapor rising toward the trees. Gry must have found her not long thereafter. My handiwork. My curse. “I understand why Gry needs someone to blame.” It’s amazing how one lie builds on another, how once you start, the truth dies a quick death.
Thyra sighs. “I got her calmed down, but Jaspar succeeded in undermining me anyway. He looked like the strong one tonight. And perhaps I deserved that.” She gives me a look full of regret. “I shouldn’t have been so quick to doubt you, Ansa. You’re the one person in this entire world who I know will protect my back. It was ungrateful of me to question.”
“I understand why,” I say. “But I will keep this curse under control.”
“And you will be victorious,” she whispers. “I am so fortunate to have such a warrior at my side.”
I tilt my head up and kiss her forehead, even as my throat constricts with shame. “And the rest of us are fortunate to have a chieftain who respects every Krigere life, warrior or andener.”
“Half of them still think I’m too weak to deserve any respect in return.”
“You’re going to prove them wrong.” I smile. “Come on. Both of us need to rest.” I pause. “I’m still not sure of my sleep,” I admit. “Will you stay next to me?”
She slips her hand into mine. “No one could pry me away.”
There, Jaspar, I think. This is my reward.
Together, Thyra and I walk back down to the fire.
CHAPTER NINE
We wake to a bitter, wet cold that has seeped into our blankets and breeches and clings to our hair in icy droplets. As we pack up just before sunrise and resume our slow progress to the southeast, following the shore of the Torden toward the unknown, I stay near Thyra and work every minute to keep the magic inside.
She was right; with a few hours of sleep, I am calmer, more able to push my thoughts and feelings into neat rows, keeping their jagged edges from thrusting the ice or fire to the fore. I focus on my adoration of her, and how she needs her strength to win allies and make strong decisions. I carry her bundle of possessions on my back, along with my own. She objected when I slid it off her shoulders this morning, but I wanted her to walk unencumbered as she speaks to our warriors, assuring them that we will be respected once we get to Vasterut—or else we will leave to plunder the south. We are not prisoners.
They cast nervous glances Jaspar’s way when she says this. I’m not sure they believe her.
“Jaspar said Nisse is planning his own invasion of Kupari,” Preben says, bowing his head and speaking quietly to Thyra as they trudge up a scramble of
rocks, the gulls that follow us circling and diving overhead. “Apparently he’s been repurposing some of the Vasterutian water vessels.”
Thyra laughs. “Water vessels? How much would you wager he’s dealing with half-rotten fishing skiffs? If Vasterut had a force on the Torden, we’d know about it.”
Preben scratches his beard. “Aye, but Nisse’s been in Vasterut for nearly three full seasons, so he could have built at least a dozen longboats, maybe. Depends on whether he’s got Vasterutians working on them too. Jaspar would know.”
Thyra looks out over the Torden as she and Preben reach the top of the rocks. “A dozen boats would be nothing to the witch. Nor would fifty.”
“Sounds like our chieftain is spooked,” Aksel mutters as he falls into step next to me. He’s corralled his bird’s nest of curls with a leather thong, and though the sun and wind have chapped his cheeks, his face is drawn with grief and taut with bitterness. “I for one am eager to slit some Kupari throats.”
“Probably because you were safe at home while the rest of us were fighting for our lives on the Torden,” I hiss.
Aksel’s dark eyes become slits. “I never believed you of all warriors would shy away from a fight. I guess I should, given who you serve.” He glares at Thyra’s back.
Heat runs in rivulets down my arms, all the way to my fingertips, and I suck in a breath of cool air off the lake, fighting my rising irritation and the danger it brings. “It’s not cowardice to reassess your strategy when your enemy turns out to be vastly more powerful than you first believed.” I lean forward, clutching hard on the straps of my bundles. “Not doing so, however, seems like idiocy to me.”
“I’d rather die fighting than wringing my hands and reassessing.”
“Stop arguing like a pair of children,” snaps Thyra.
I look up to find her peering back at the two of us as we descend the rocks. “Apologies, Chieftain.”
Aksel mutters something insolent before echoing my words. Thyra stops right on the trail, forcing the rest of us to do the same. “Aksel, go see if the andeners at the rear of our line need help carrying anything. We’re nearly to noonmeal, and they’re bound to be getting tired. A strong arm will be a relief to them.”